


After Death

by Rachel Wilder (rwilder)



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rwilder/pseuds/Rachel%20Wilder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder attempts to deal with life after death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Death

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by an old David Duchovny interview I read this week. Turns out he had some of the same questions I did. Many thanks to my great betas: Michelle Kiefer, DS and Gerry Hill. You ladies are amazing.

The door closes and I breathe a sigh of relief. I hate to admit it, but I'm glad she's gone. I am so thankful for all she's done, for her faith in me, but it was just too hard to have her here. I hope that feeling goes away, especially under the circumstances, but for now I just want to be here, in a place that feels safe, without anyone asking me any questions. She looks so expectant and it's not just the baby. I keep thinking that she is waiting for me to say something profound, to have some explanation for what has happened to me, but there is no explanation. Her eyes are filled with questions and I have no answers; not for her nor for me.

Dead. When she told me I had been dead and buried I wasn't sure what to say. It was a rush of too much information. How is any person supposed to handle any of these revelations, let alone all in sixty seconds. Mulder, you were abducted. Mulder, I'm pregnant. Mulder, you were dead.

It's too much.

I turn and look at the fish again. The soft glow of the tank light slips into the room, casting an eerie glow on my chest. The others don't seem to miss their compatriot. Perhaps they appreciate a bit more room in the tank.

I'm actually fairly surprised that only one of them is gone. She took good care of them. The tank is clean, she took very good care of them. Did I even water her plants when she was gone? Why did she care so much?

But I was dead, why do I even have a home any longer? Why would she keep my things like this? I knew that I had a life-long flirtation with denial, but Scully has always been so pragmatic.

She's also been a bit psychic at times. Maybe she knew. When I came back from Arizona, when even my mother had given up...she knew then. I wish I had her faith.

It looks like my apartment, but somehow I'm not sure. It's clean; things are neatly stacked and my computer is gone. I wonder if the FBI took it. The IT division must have had fun with my internet cache. Oh well, it was personal time and a private machine.

I walk into my bedroom. The bed is neatly made, of course and this week's TV Guide is sitting on the bedside table. I'm shocked to realize that she renewed the subscription until I remember that it is automatically charged to my credit card. I reach for the magazine and flip it open. The NBA finals are coming up. I completely missed the World Series...again. Damn, two years that I'm out of commission and miss my team taking the title. What are the chances that they'll be going for it again next fall? What are the chances that I'll be around next fall?

I wonder if I should just leave. I could take a trip, go to the Vineyard...except I'm not sure I still have a car and I have no idea where my wallet or credit cards might be. I'm trapped in my apartment just like I was trapped on that ship.

I have visions of it, flashes that make me gasp. The drill comes down, at me, toward my mouth...I'm pinned down and I can't move.

I snap back to the room. I've had these visions, these flashbacks before, at the hospital. Scully doesn't know and I don't want her to. She already has too much to cope with besides me having a breakdown every ten minutes. I just hope that it's my over-active imagination because if that's actually what happened to me, I'm not sure I could handle it.

But I do think it's true. I saw the scars before they disappeared. I pull my shirt off and run my fingers down the fading scar on my chest. It looks like they opened me from stem to stern. Scully assures me that everything is still in there, but I'm not sure. I feel like something is missing and I'm pretty sure it's not my gall bladder. There's an empty place and it might just be my soul. I'm almost afraid to touch it again, that if I tapped, my chest would rattle like the heartless Tin Man.

The bed is too neat. All of it is. This is not my home. I barely recognize these cream-colored walls. There were strangers here, in my sanctuary and they went through my things.

Like they went through me.

I kneel down before the bedside table, opening the bottom drawer. I quickly sift through the magazines, random cancelled checks and old photos I always meant to put in an album. My hands touch the cool cover and I pull the book toward me. This is the only thing that really mattered, the only thing I could not replace. I flip open the book, again reading my sister's pain-filled words. Somehow I feel a kindred with her that I haven't been able to before. The tears come and I have to put the diary away.

Standing up, I pull open the closet door and open the hamper. It's empty. Scully and I had been on the road, in Oregon. I know that this hamper was filled with my clothes from that trip. Even though I know that trip had to be months ago, to me it was just a couple of days earlier. I stagger back toward the bed, slipping down along the side, my arms clutched around my knees. So much is lost. Nothing is mine any longer.

Maybe even that baby.

I can't ask her about the pregnancy. It's too much, too intimate. There is a gulf between us that I can see she wants to bridge, but I'm not ready. I'm not sure what is mine yet and until I know that, I can't share anything.

I loved her. When I left with Skinner, to find the truth, I loved her. Now I'm not sure. Who is she? Who am I?

I push myself up off the floor and head for the kitchen. I can only imagine the scene when they opened the science experiment I like to call my refrigerator. I have a perverse wish that Scully has left behind my leftover pizza in the box, but I know that it has to be gone...along with everything else I know.

She bought my groceries. No, she bought the groceries she wanted me to have. Soy milk. Good lord, Scully, I am not a woman. Coke. Would a six pack of Sam Adams have killed her?

I feel guilty for my bitterness. Scully has done nothing but help me since...well...since my return. I just hope I'm supposed to mix this "milk" with my dried cheese product to make a little comfort food...maybe some macaroni and cheese.

I look in the cupboard. She has not forsaken me...there's a box of donuts next to the box of mac and cheese. On second thought, she might be trying to kill me, the only coffee I see is decaf. I know the doctor said I should avoid over stimulation, but this is going too far.

I find my saucepan neatly stacked by the frying pan and Dutch oven in the cupboard next to the sink. Eyeing the milk, I pour in what I think has to be a third of a cup of milk, although with this non-dairy product, I'm not sure it's going to taste right. After heating, I reach for a bowl and soup spoon. It's runny, but looks like it's edible.

Mac and cheese in hand, I head for the living room. I look at the couch and sigh. Scully, or the Merry Maids, appear to have polished it or something. I lean down and sniff it. It smells like cleanser. I run my hands over it...instead of scuffed and lived in, it's polished and soft. I don't want to sit down. It won't feel right. Nothing feels right anymore.

I head back into the bedroom. At least I have a TV in here as well. Even in this season of reruns, everything will be new to me now. I chuckle as I continue to grope for the silver lining.

As I sit down on the bed, I can feel that there's something under the pillow. Did the goon squad miss something? Did Scully? I reach for it.

It's a shirt. It's my shirt. I pull it up to my nose. It's the only thing in this whole apartment that still smells like me. But there's something else there...something more.

It's Scully. She was here. I set the bowl of food down and inhale again, this time more deeply. She's all over it.

As I look around the room, I can see her everywhere. I can see her looking for me, missing me, keening.

I've never had anyone who cared about me like she does. The tears come again, this time threatening to choke me. I cry for my lost months, for Scully and her pain, for the baby, for the time that will never return.

I touch the shirt to my chest. Suddenly it doesn't feel as empty anymore.

FIN


End file.
